Thursday. Mrs C can scarce guess how she has gratified me by her very kind letter and sweet little poem. I feel that I should thank her in rhyme; but she must take my acknowledgment, at present, in plain honest prose. The uncertainty in which I yet stand, whether I can come or no, damps my spirits, reduces me a degree below prosaical, and keeps me in a suspense that fluctuates between hope and fear. Hope is a charming, lively, blue-eyed wench, and I am always glad of her company, but could dispense with the visitor she brings with her-her younger sister, Fear,—a white-livered, lily-cheeked, bashful, palpitating, awkward hussy, that hangs, like a green girl, at her sister's apron-strings, and will go with her whithersoever she goes. For the life and soul of me I could not improve those lines in your poem on the Prince and Princess; so I changed them to what you bid me, and left 'em at Perry's. I think 'em altogether good, and do not see why you were solicitous about any alteration. I have not yet seen, but will make it my business to see, to-day's Chronicle, for your verses on Horne Tooke. Dyer stanza'd him in one of the papers t'other day; but, I think, unsuccessfully. Tooke's friends' meeting was, I suppose, a dinner of condolence. I am not sorry to find you (for all Sara) immersed in clouds of smoke and metaphysics. You know I had a sneaking kindness for this last noble science, and you taught me some smattering of it. I look to become no mean proficient under your tuition. Coleridge, what do you mean by saying you wrote to me about Plutarch and Porphyry? I received no such letter, nor remember a syllable of the matter, yet am not apt to forget any part epistles, least of all, an injunction like that. I will cast about for 'em, tho' I am a sad hand to know what books are worth, and both those worthy gentleman are alike out of my line. To-morrow I shall be less suspensive, and in better cue to write; so good-bye at present.

of

your

Friday Evening.-That execrable aristocrat and knave, Richardson, has given me an absolute refusal of leave. The poor man cannot guess at my disappointment. Is it not hard, Is it not hard, "this dread dependence on the low-bred mind"? Continue to write to me tho', and I must be content. Our loves and best good wishes attend upon you both. LAMB.

Savory did return, but there are two or three more ill and absent, which was the plea for refusing me. I will never commit my peace of mind by depending on such a wretch for a favour in future, so I shall never have heart to ask for holidays again. The man next him in office, Cartwright, furnished him with the objections. C. LAMB.

VI.

TO THE SAME

July 5, 1796.

[With verses "To Sara and her Samuel" enclosed.]

Let us prose.

What can I do till you send word what priced and placed house you should like? Islington, possibly, you would not like; to me 'tis classical ground. Knightsbridge is a desirable situation for the air of the parks. St George's Fields is convenient for its contiguity to the Bench. Choose! But are you really coming to town? The hope of it has entirely disarmed my petty disappointment of its nettles; yet I rejoice so much on my own account, that I fear I do not feel enough pure satisfaction on yours. Why, surely, the joint editorship of the [Morning] Chronicle must be a very comfortable and secure living for a man. But should not you read French, or do you? and can you write with sufficient moderation, as 'tis called, when one supresses the one half of what one feels or could say on a subject, to chime in the better with popular lukewarmness? White's "Letters" are

near publication. Could you review 'em, or get 'em reviewed? Are you not connected with the Critical Review? His frontispiece is a good conceit: Sir John learning to dance to please Madame Page, in dress of doublet, &c., forms the upper half; and modern pantaloons, with shoes, &c., of the eighteenth century, form the lower half; and the whole work is full of goodly quips and rare fancies, "all deftly masqued like hoar antiquity "—much superior to Dr Kenrick's Falstaff's Wedding, which you have seen. Allen sometimes laughs at superstition, and religion, and the like. A living fell vacant lately in the gift of the Hospital White informed him that he stood a fair chance for it. He scrupled and scrupled about it, and at last, to use his own words, "tampered " with Godwin to know whether the thing was honest or not. Godwin said nay to it, and Allen rejected the living! Could the blindest poor papist have bowed more servilely to his priest or casuist? Why sleep the Watchman's answers to that Godwin? I beg you will not delay to alter, if you mean to keep, those last lines I sent you. Do that, and read these for

your pains :

TO THE POET COWPER

Cowper, I thank my God that thou art heal'd!
Thine was the sorest malady of all;
And I am sad to think that it should light
Upon thy worthy head! But thou art heal'd,
And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man,
Born to reanimate the lyre, whose chords
Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long;
To the immortal sounding of whose strings
Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse;
Among whose wires with light finger playing,
Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentle name,
The Lady Muses' dearest darling child,
Elicited the deftest tunes yet heard
In hall or bower, taking the delicate ear
Of Sidney and his peerless Maiden Queen.

Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain,

Cowper, of England's Bards, the wisest and the best.

The

I have read your climax of praises in those three Reviews. These mighty spouters out of panegyric waters have, two of 'em, scattered their spray even upon me, and the waters are cooling and refreshing, Prosaically, the Monthly reviewers have made indeed a large article of it, and done you justice. Critical have, in their wisdom, selected not the very best specimens, and notice not, except as one name on the muster-roll, the Religious Musings. I suspect Master Dyer to have been the writer of that article, as the substance of it was the very remarks and the very language he used to me one day. I fear you will not accord entirely with my sentiments of Cowper, as expressed above, (perhaps scarcely just;) but the poor gentleman has just recovered from his lunacies, and that begets pity, and pity love, and love admiration; and then it goes hard with people, but they lie! Have you read the Ballad called "Leonora," in the second number of the Monthly Magazine? If you have!!!! There is another fine song, from the same author (Burger), in the third Number, of scarce inferior merit; and (vastly below these) there are some happy specimens of English hexameters, in an imitation of Ossian, in the fifth Number. For your Dactyls I am sorry you are so sore about 'em—a very Sir Fretful! In good troth, the Dactyls are good Dactyls, but their measure is naught. Be not yourself "half anger, half agony," if I pronounce your darling lines not to be the best you ever wrote -you have written much.

The

Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute de Contumelia. What do you mean by calling Madame Mara "harlot" and other naughty things? goodness of the verse would not save you in a Court of Justice. But are you really coming to town? Coleridge, a gentleman called in London lately from Bristol, and inquired whether there were any of the family of a Mr Chambers living: this Mr Chambers,

he said, had been the making of a friend's fortune, who wished to make some return for it. He went away without seeing her. Now, a Mrs Reynolds, a very intimate friend of ours, whom you have seen at our house, is the only daughter, and all that survives, of Mr Chambers; and a very little supply would be of service to her, for she married very unfortunately, and has parted with her husband. Pray find out this Mr Pember, (for that was the gentleman's friend's name :) he is an attorney, and lives at Bristol. Find him out, and acquaint him with the circumstances of the case, and offer to be the medium of supply to Mrs Reynolds, if he chooses to make her a present. She is in very distressed circumstances. Mr Pember, attorney, Bristol. Mr Chambers lived in the Temple; Mrs Reynolds, his daughter, was my schoolmistress, and is in the room at this present writing. This last circumstance induced me to write so soon again. I have not further to add. Our loves to Sara. C. LAMB.

VII.

Thursday.

TO THE SAME

September 27th, 1796.

My dearest Friend,-White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. I will only give you the outlines :-My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved to an hospital. God has preserved to me my senses: I eat, and drink, and sleep, and have my judgment, I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr Norris, of the Bluecoat School, has been very kind to us, and we have